Farm killings in South Africa

by Balthazar

Where is the media?
Farmers under  attack
No one seems to care
Cos Apartheid was the root of the problem
The police seems to be powerless
ANC tries to cover these acts
I thought this government fought for equality for all
No one is aware of these things
2000 murders farmers have been ignored
Jealousy is a poison
My great grand father owend this land
Therefor, I have to kill
Really?
You seem to think that they just took money from trees
Why is this happening?
Why isn’t anybody paying attention to this?

Dangerous minds are drama queens
They can’t seem to take responsiblity for their lives
Wasting their lives on playing blame games
What’s your f**** problem?
Farmers are feeding the country
I am tired of your f**** silly excuses
This is a racist term on White farmers
Racism is racism without any discussion
Torture becomes a source of power and survival
Crime knows no color
A murder is a murder
A thief is a thief
Africa remains silent
Why don’t build your own lives?
Murder is brutal
It’s not serving South Africa
It’s not serving Africa
It’s not serving the world
The hole of failure begins to open

Town Eclogues: Thursday; The Bassette-Table

by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

SMILINDA and CARDELIA.CARDELIA.
THE bassette-table spread, the tallier come,
Why stays SMILINDA in the dressing-room ?
Rise, pensive nymph ! the tallier stays for you.

SMILINDA.
Ah ! Madam, since my SHARPER is untrue,
I joyless make my once ador’d alpieu.
I saw him stand behind OMBRELIA’s Chair,
And whisper with that soft deluding air,
And those feign’d sighs that cheat the list’ng fair —

CARDELIA.
Is this the cause of your romantic strains ?
A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains.
As you by love, so I by fortune cross’d,
In one bad deal three Septleva’s I lost.

SMILINDA.

Is that a grief which you compare with mine ?
With ease the smiles of fortune I resign.
Wou’d all my gold in one bad deal were gone,
Were lovely SHARPFR mine, and mine alone.

CARDELIA.

A lover lost, is but a common care,
And prudent nymphs against the change prepare.
The queen of Clubs thrice lost ! Oh ! who cou’d guess
This fatal stroke this unforeseen distress !

SMILINDA.

See ! BETTY LOVEIT very à propos !
She all the pains of love and play does know,
Deeply experienc’d many years ago.
Dear BETTY shall th’ important point decide,
BETTY, who oft the pains of each has try’d :
Impartial, she shall say who suffers most,
By cards, ill-usage, or by lovers lost.

LOVEIT.

Tell, tell your griefs ; attentive will I stay,
Tho’ time is precious, and I want some tea.

CARDELIA.

Behold this equipage by MATHERS wrought
With fifty guineas (a great pen’orth !) bought !
See on the tooth-pick MARS and CUPID strive,
And both the struggling figures seem to liue.
Upon the bottom see the Queen’s bright face ;
A myrtle foliage round the thimble case ;
JOVE, JOVE himself does on the scissars shine,
The metal and the workmanship divine.

SMILINDA.

This snuff-box once the pledge of SHARPER’s love,
When rival beauties for the present strove,
(At CORTICELLI’s he the raffle won,
There first his passion was in public shown ;
HAZARDIA blush’d, and turn’d her head aside,
A rival’s envy all in vain to hide)
This snuff-box — on the hinge see diamonds shine ;
This snuff-box will I stake, the prize is mine.

CARDELIA.

Alas ! far lesser losses than I bear,
Have made a soldier sigh, a lover swear :
But oh ! what makes the disappointment hard,
‘Twas my own Lord who drew the fatal card ! —
In complaisance I took the Queen he gave,
Tho’ my own secret wish was for the Knave :
The Knave won son ecart that I had chose,
And the next pull my septleva I lose.

SMILINDA.

But ah ! what aggravates the killing smart,
The cruel thought that stabs me to the heart,
This curs’d OMBRELIA, this undoing fair,
By whose vile arts this heavy grief I bear,
She, at whose name I shed these spiteful tears,
She owes to me, the very charms she wears :
An aukward thing when first she came to town,
Her shape unfinish’d and her face unknown ;
She was my friend, I taught her first to spread
Upon her sallow cheeks enlivening red,
I introduc’d her to the park and plays,
And by my Interest COSINS made her stays ;
Ungrateful wretch ! with mimick airs grown pert,
She dares to steal my favourite lover’s heart.

CARDELIA.

Wretch that I was ! how often have I swore,
When WINNALL tallied, I would punt no more !
I know the bite, yet to my ruin run,
And see the folly which I cannot shun.

SMILINDA.

How many maids have SHARPER’s vows deceiv’d !
How many curs’d the moment they believ’d !
Yet, his known falshood could no warning prove :
Ah ! what are warnings to a maid in love !

CARDELIA.

But of what marble must that breast be form’d,
Can gaze on Bassette, and remain unwarm’d ?
When kings, queens, knaves are set in decent rank,
Expos’d in glorious heaps the tempting bank !
Guineas, half-guineas, all the shining train,
The Winner’s pleasure and the Loser’s pain ;
In bright confusion open rouleaus lie,
They strike the soul, and glitter in the eye ;
Fir’d by the sight, all reason I disdain,
My passions rise, and will not bear the rein :
Look upon Bassette, you who Reason boast,
And see if Reason may not there be lost !

SMILINDA.

What more than marble must that breast compose,
That listens coldly to my SHARPER’s vows !
Then when he trembles, when his blushes rise,
When awful Love seems melting in his eyes !
With eager beats his Mechlin cravat moves :
He loves, I whisper to myself, He loves !
Such unfeign’d passion in his look appears,
I lose all mem’ry of my former fears ;
My panting heart confesses all his charms ;
I yield at once, and sink into his arms.
Think of that moment, you who Prudence boast !
For such a moment, Prudence well were lost.

CARDELIA.

At the Groom-porter’s, batter’d bullies play ;
Some Dukes at Marybon bowl time away :
But who the bowl or rattling dice compares
To Bassette’s heavenly joys and pleasing cares ?

SMILINDA.

Soft SIMPLICETTA doats upon a beau ;
PRUDINA likes a man, and laughs at show :
Their several graces in my SHARPER meet ;
Strong as the footman, as the master sweet.

LOVEIT.

Cease your contention, which has been too long,
I grow impatient, and the tea too strong :
Attend, and yield to what I now decide ;
The equipage shall grace SMILINDA’s side ;
The snuff-box to CARDELIA I decree ;
So leave complaining, and begin your tea.

This poem and all it’s rights go to “https://www.poemhunter.com”.

God bless you all my darling avidReaders! Have a blessed Thursday 🙂

Two Poems for Today

I decided to post two contrasting poems. These both deal with hope and utter sorrow.

God bless you all today. Whether you’re having a bad day or a good day this is for you 🙂 Love you all my darling avidReaders! 🙂

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

LIFESTYLE/HOWSTUFFWORKS

An MSers Prayer

Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray to God I do not weep
Some days I feel so strong
Others it seems everything is wrong

After another long hard day
Of having the wrong words to say
I have to think of tomorrow
And pray there is no sorrow

While tomorrow does always come
It doesn’t mean I won’t be glum
Happiness is my hearts desire
We shall see what will transpire

https://www.tocolor.pics/praying-hands/

New Platforms

Hello all my darlings. You will see I’ve added Patreon and Ko-fi buttons onto my page. If you can, I would really appreciate any donations to help further my writing. I am not charging a lot on Patreon. It’s only $3 and my Ko-fi page you are able to donate however much you can. When I started my blog, from my very first post, I made a promise to myself (and in consequence you) that I would never charge any fee to subscribe to my blog. I want all of you to be able to enjoy my articles. It’s a promise I will keep to you. I, however, do need your help in supporting my writing. Please, if you can donate, even if it’s just a small Ko-fi (Haha) I would really appreciate it. I am busy posting my book the Stranger onto Patreon and I will also be giving you updates on my writing as well as a look into what my life is like on Ko-fi. I want you to know me as much as I want to know you. I am posting daily on Ko-fi and every week I release a chapter of Stranger on Patreon for you to enjoy. I will still be posting here as I have, only I may not be able to post full articles every day. On Patreon I will be posting my own poems and on Ko-fi I will tell you a little bit about my day as well as what I am mulling over that day.

I have now seen that there are just under 1700 avidReaders and I want to welcome all my new darling avidReaders. I love you darlings and I will continue to provide all sorts of weird and wonderful topics for you to enjoy.

God bless all of you 🙂 Have a lovely weekend

Anger by Daniel Luke Nelson

Anger fills my heart and soul
Anger takes a mighty toll
Anger lessens but can never leave
Anger you hope to never receive,
Anger stays forever within
Anger acts with the might of all sin
Anger is deadly to all around
Anger gets mad at the thought of sound
Anger is the thoughts in my head
Anger that’s mine all should dread
Anger for me is different from you
Anger you see tells me what to do
Anger will sit and whisper in my ear
Anger he sits and tells me all that you fear,

Anger…
He is here
He’s here to stay
Anger is the hole
In which we lay
Anger is
And Anger will
Always be with us

He is in me, and he is in you
He can make you do
What he wants you to
Anger will make you
Make you cry
Anger can make you
Want to die
Anger can make you
Go insane
Anger….. … A blood filled rain
No more anger
No more…..
Walk to the bright light
Shinning through that door…
Not knowing what’s in store
But even then
Anger lives on
But you… nevermore

I have been thinking a lot about how anger can wound someone and I realized that if we could make love our automatic response instead of anger how different this world would be! I read this and was moved.

God bless all of you, my darling avidReaders!

The Vision Poem

So this guy comes up to me and says,
“What’s the vision? What’s the big idea?” 
I open my mouth and words come out like this…

The Vision?

The vision is JESUS – obsessively, dangerously, undeniably Jesus.
The vision is an army of young people.
You see bones? I see an army. And they are FREE from materialism.

They laugh at 9-5 little prisons. They could eat caviar on Monday and crusts on Tuesday. They wouldn’t even notice. They know the meaning of the Matrix, the way the west was won.

They are mobile like the wind, they belong to the nations. They need no passport. People write their addresses in pencil and wonder at their strange existence.
They are free yet they are slaves of the hurting and
dirty and dying.

What is the vision?

The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes. It makes children laugh and adults angry. It gave up the game of minimum integrity long ago to reach for the stars. It scorns the good and strains for the best. It is dangerously pure.

Light flickers from every secret motive, every private conversation. It loves people away from their suicide leaps, their Satan games. This is an army that will lay down its life for the cause. A million times a day its soldiers choose to lose that they might one day win the great ‘Well done’ of faithful sons and daughters.

Such heroes are as radical on Monday morning as Sunday night. They don’t need fame from names. Instead they grin quietly upwards and hear the crowds chanting
again and again:

“COME ON!”

And this is the sound of the underground. The whisper of history in the making. Foundations shaking. Revolutionaries dreaming once again. Mystery is scheming in whispers. Conspiracy is breathing. This is the sound of the underground

And the army is discipl(in)ed. Young people who beat their bodies into submission.
Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade at arms. The tattoo on their back boasts, “for me to live is Christ and to die is gain”

Sacrifice fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes. Winners. Martyrs. Who can stop them? Can hormones hold them back? Can failure succeed? Can fear scare them or death kill them?

And the generation prays like a dying man with groans beyond talking, with warrior cries, sulphuric tears and with great barrow loads of laughter!

Waiting. Watching. 24 – 7 – 365.

Whatever it takes they will give: Breaking the rules. Shaking mediocrity from its cosy little hide. Laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs, laughing at labels, fasting essentials. The advertisers cannot mould them. Hollywood cannot hold them. Peer-pressure is powerless to shake their resolve at late night parties before the cockerel cries.

They are incredibly cool, dangerously attractive inside.

On the outside? They hardly care. They wear clothes like costumes to communicate and celebrate but never to hide. Would they surrender their image or their popularity? They would lay down their very lives – swap seats with the man on death row – guilty as hell. A throne for an electric chair.

With blood and sweat and many tears, with sleepless nights and fruitless days, they pray as if it all depends on God and live as if it all depends on them.

Their DNA chooses JESUS. (He breathes out, they breathe in.) Their subconscious sings. They had a blood transfusion with Jesus. Their words make demons scream in shopping centres.

Don’t you hear them coming? Herald the weirdos! Summon the losers and the freaks. Here come the frightened and forgotten with fire in their eyes. They walk tall and trees applaud, skyscrapers bow, mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension.

Their prayers summon the hounds of heaven and invoke the ancient dream of Eden.

And this vision will be. It will come to pass; it will come easily; it will come soon. How do I know? Because this is the longing of creation itself, the groaning of the Spirit, the very dream of God. My tomorrow is his today. My distant hope is his 3D. And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking great ‘Amen!’ from countless angels, from heroes of the faith, from Christ himself. And he is the original dreamer, the ultimate winner.

Guaranteed.

All rights for this poem go to #visionfilm.

God bless you all my fearless avidReaders!

The Mansion of My Childhood

By MO H. SAIDI

For Tristan

I

My father was tall, plump, old and cruel.
            When he was late returning home, we’d
                        joke that he’d been taken to the morgue.

A story teller, he often would say, God
            Loves good tales with happy endings:
                        The Holy Book’s stories, Layla and Majnun.

II

My grandfather was a bearded man.
            He looked like the Sistine God
                        His face gleamed with candor.

An ayatollah, he believed Allah is afflicted
            With insomnia no angel can cure—He’s
                        a riddle, a challenge for mankind, God’s

grace can be purchased in every bazaar.
            He’d say, “Don’t pray for me, do it for Him.
                        When He’s jaded, He may stage a deluge.”

III

My father would visit my grandfather
            once a month—the city was an hour’s drive
                        away. Grandfather had strong arms

But his legs were paralyzed.
            He had fully memorized the Book of Kings
                        and the Koran. For a good tip, I’d listen

to him for hours and the follow the lines.
            Only rarely did he err. He let me correct
                        the slips because I was his favorite grandson.

IV

My childhood house was a mansion
            I was the shortest kid on the block. They
                        all knew my name; I only the teacher’s.

When grandfather would visit us, he’d
            bring us softballs, candies, silver coins.
                        Even before his stroke, he was always weak

in his legs, would limp along and tire quickly.
            On his last visit, he struggled and wrote
Icannotcontrolmyhand, and he dropped the pen.

V

I would look at my father in awe.
            He was tall, strong and voracious
                        too old to live to see my diploma.

Loud and uncouth, he was a lamb
            under Mother’s shadow. To leave more
                        time for prayer, they both had forbidden chess,

reading or writing poetry in our house.
            I always dreamed to be a writer. They
                        preached that I should become a mullah.

We made peace: they burned the chess board
            and the pieces; I buried the Holy Book. As I
                        prepared to leave town, a call shook the house.

VI

I heard the unbearable news—my hero
was dead—we rushed to his hometown.
                        The city was confused. A black holiday.

The waves of men in black marched
            in the streets. His house teemed with mourners
                        waiting for the feast. The servants served

Bread, rice, and cheese. High on the roof
            the muezzin was hard at work with booming
                        calls. In the chaos of the funeral procession,

I muttered his favorite line as I looked
            at his open casket. Life is a mansion
                        of ice, how could I avoid the sun?

Your daily dose of poetry. God bless you all my darling avidReaders 🙂

EDEN, THEN AND NOW

RUTH STONE

In ’29 before the dust storms
sandblasted Indianapolis,
we believed in the milk company.
Milk came in glass bottles.
We spread dye-colored butter,
now connected to cancer.
We worked seven to seven
with no overtime pay;
pledged allegiance every day,
pitied the starving Armenians.
One morning in the midst of plenty,
there were folks out of context,
who were living on nothing.
Some slept in shacks
on the banks of the river.
This phenomenon investors said
would pass away.
My father worked for the daily paper.
He was a union printer;
lead slugs and blue smoke.
He worked with hot lead
at a two-ton machine,
in a low-slung seat;
a green-billed cap
pulled low on his forehead.
He gave my mother a dollar a day.
You could say we were rich.
This was the Jazz Age.
All over the country
the dispossessed wandered
with their hungry children,
harassed by the law.
When the market broke, bad losers
jumped out of windows.
It was time to lay an elegant table,
as it is now; corporate paradise;
the apple before the rot caved in.
It was the same worm
eating the same fruit.
In fact, the same Eden.

Freedom

NABANITA KANUNGO

It would try to lisp a dumbness sometimes—
the language of welts rising slowly on the panes,
a cracked blur of riot-torn air,
confused which year it was.

The last time it made a sound was when
it crinkled on its way into a bin,
a great plot of justice. I wasn’t born, then;
my father was.

It must have been whole once,
for you could still conceive it like a dream,
a gloriously illegitimate thing, though;
until a country was torn out of its heart one day
and you saw its impaled ghost in the moon.

My grandfather told me we had slept so long
with a flag over us, we couldn’t run when
machetes poked us awake amidst still-dreaming heads
rolling in the streets like marbles struck in game.

There was nowhere to go and we went nowhere,
with its face slumped on our backs
and history books that said what had happened is the past,

until sixty years later, a community’s threats betraying
her voice, a poor nun requested me
to leave my month-old job in a convent
where I’d studied since childhood.

I keep trying to find its shape in photographs, old letters,
the wind of stories trapped in some cancerous throat, dying …

a tattered roof in the stars, a tent flying off
with meanings barely gathered into a heap.

TUPAC SHAKUR “THE ROSE THAT GREW FROM CONCRETE”

Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature’s law is wrong it
learned to walk with out having feet.

Funny it seems, but by keeping it’s dreams,
it learned to breathe fresh air.

Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared.

This poem really spoke to me today. Roses are beautiful and strong–strong enough to grow in the harshest of environments. This is a type of our lives. Whatever comes our way, we must never let the concrete in our lives stop the rose in us from blooming.

God bless you all, my darling avidReaders